


Sentiment

by EbonyKnight



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Emotions, Fluff and Angst, Friends With Benefits, Injury, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-04-19 19:12:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14243913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EbonyKnight/pseuds/EbonyKnight
Summary: After years of friendship, Mycroft suggests something of a change in their relationship. What could possibly go wrong?





	1. An Agreement

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. 
> 
> Two more chapters to come, and come they will. 
> 
> Beta'd by the lovely CindyLouWho. 
> 
> Feedback is always welcome.

“Tell me, Greg,” Mycroft drawled when their conversation hit a natural lull, swirling the contents of his glass with an air of indifference. “How do you feel about sex?”

The hand lifting Greg’s glass to his lips froze before it reached its destination, eyes zeroing in on his friend as the on goings of the restaurant around them seemed to slow around him. “Sex?” he asked, hoping he didn’t sound as confused as he felt. He and Mycroft had been friends for well over a decade, each being there for the other in his own way through more sticky spots than Greg could count, but not once had Mycroft asked such a personal question.

“Yes, sex,” came the bland reply, the other man’s eyes suddenly flicking up from contemplating his drink. Greg felt the weight of his friend’s attention like it was a physical presence but held his gaze. “With me, I should clarify. I know that you’re attracted to me, and you’re clearly fond of the activity in general; your promiscuity since divorcing Sarah makes that much obvious.”

Unable to restrain an inelegant snort, Greg lowered his glass, not quite believing that this was actually happening. “You might want to work on your delivery, mate: calling the bloke you’re trying to bed slut might get you punched in the wrong company.”

“If the shoe fits, as the saying goes,” Mycroft smirked.

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up.” Greg necked the rest of his drink, getting the feeling that he was going to need all the help he could get to survive this conversation. “Did you seriously just proposition me?”

“Yes. We both enjoy sex and we share a mutual attraction. I enjoy your company, which is more than I can say for the dullards I’ve copulated with in recent years,” came the simple response, Mycroft sounding for all the world like he was suggesting that they share a dessert and not a bed. “It’s really very straightforward.”

“No, it’s really not. We’re friends, Mycroft,” Greg said slowly, maintaining eye contact. “You’re my _closest_ friend.” He quickly decided that honesty was, as always with Mycroft, the best policy. “Yeah, I think you’re gorgeous and I’ve clocked you checking me out a few times, but that doesn’t mean it’d be a good idea to do anything about it. We’re adults; we can fancy someone without needing to shag them.”

Mycroft hummed and his expression changed subtly, something of the predator lighting in his eyes. “And if I _want_ to ‘shag’ you?” His voice was low and there was an edge to it that Greg hadn’t heard before, but, if the way his body was responding was a reliable gauge, he’d like to hear it again. The other man sat back in his chair, glass held casually between long, elegant fingers, and Greg suddenly had a job and a half keeping his eyes off them. “I said ‘sex’ and that’s all that I’m proposing. You needn’t worry that it will change the character of our friendship, nor that I will expect anything more from you. I’m merely suggesting that we continue our Wednesday get togethers past the point at which we would normally part ways.”

Needing more time to process Mycroft's proposal, Greg cleared his throat and reached for the almost-empty bottle of Shiraz on the table between them, briefly looking around the restaurant as though to check that they hadn’t entered an alternate universe. “And have sex,” he replied when he’d emptied the contents of the bottle into his glass and could stall no further. "With each other."

“Indeed. I’m told that my fellatio is excellent,” Mycroft replied, an amused smile curling his lips when Greg inhaled his mouthful of wine and spluttered noisily. “And I haven’t choked like _that_ since I was seventeen.”

“Fuck off,” Greg snapped, mopping at his mouth with his napkin as a deep flush run up his neck and engulfed his face. The toffs at the neighbouring table were watching him with disapproval and he resisted the urge to flip them the bird. “That was uncalled for.”

“Hmm. True, though. If you feel that we can introduce sex into our friendship without things becoming unnecessarily…complicated, I’ll prove it.”

Though Mycroft sounded as supremely confident as always, Greg knew him well enough to detect the edge of discomfiture. It was something in his bearing, or maybe the set of his shoulders, that was off, and Greg suddenly knew that it wasn’t a suggestion that he’d decided to make lightly, regardless of the front he was wearing. “Why?” Greg asked, seriously contemplating saying ‘yes’. Mycroft was right; Greg had always had a healthy appetite for sex, and it had been very lacking in the years that his marriage had been floundering. Unlike his ex, he hadn’t gone looking for it whilst they’d been together, but he’d certainly made up for it since. That said, Mycroft was his best friend, and that wasn’t something that he was prepared to risk for the sake of getting his end away. “I know people aren’t exactly your thing, but you’ve got to know that no-strings sex gone wrong has killed countless friendships. I don’t want to lose this,” he continued, waving his hand between them, “for the sake of sex, no matter how good I reckon you’d be in the sack.”

A thoughtful expression crossed Mycroft’s face, and Greg was pleased that he was taking his concern seriously. “Personally, I’m tired of bad sex with tedious people. You’re a very attractive man, we enjoy one another’s company, and I see no reason that I shouldn’t enjoy the best of both.” Mycroft rested his elbows on the table and pressed his palms together, touching his fingertips to his chin. “As to your concern about damaging our friendship, might I remind you that last year you discovered that I’d hidden a dangerously psychopathic, murderous sister from you for ten years? Never mind that I allowed you to believe Sherlock dead for two years. If it can withstand _that_ , then I doubt that we have much to fear from the introduction of sex,” he replied drily, eyes intense.

“Yeah, well, there is that,” Greg replied distractedly looking up but barely registering the sparkling chandelier suspended above the table. He thought hard and fast, grateful when Mycroft gave him time to think. Yes, he found his friend was hot as hell, and he had occasionally entertained vague fantasies about acting on it, and yes he really had been a bit of a tart since his divorce, basically shagging anything alive and interested, but he’d meant it when he said that he didn’t want to lose Mycroft’s friendship. Once he’d got past the other man’s propensity to have him kidnapped, snobbery, and icy demeanour, Greg had discovered a loyal, funny, and generous friend, and he knew just how valuable that was. On the other hand, he had no desire to be getting into another relationship after his disaster of a marriage, and shagging his friend sounded like the perfect way to satisfy his desire for sex without needing to go out looking for it when he was knackered from work, or risk someone wanting more than he could give. “So, friends with benefits, yeah?” he asked, relieved when his voice came out steady.

“A mutually beneficial arrangement, yes,” replied Mycroft. He picked up his glass and drained it of the remaining liquid. “We continue to meet for dinner on Wednesday evenings, and then adjourn to my flat for more…intimate activities.”

Greg shook his head, amused. “You mean you want to take me back to yours for bit of rumpy pumpy once a week so you can get laid without dealing with plebs.”

“Precisely,” Mycroft confirmed with a glint in his eyes. “What do you say?”

Despite knowing just how badly wrong this whole venture could go, Greg, with barely a moment’s pause, grinned and asked, “When do we start?”


	2. Too Late

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I still don't own Sherlock. I'll get over that one day. 
> 
> Beta'd by my dear CindyLouWho, wonderful woman that she is.

**Mycroft Holmes:** Will this torture never end? I’ve spent time at the mercy of terrorists and suffered less.

Greg read the text with a fond smile. Only a Holmes would be dramatic enough to compare Sunday dinner with his parents to torture, but it really must have been bad if Mycroft was texting for entertainment’s sake. He tapped out a quick reply, promising to buy his friend enough wine to erase the memory when they met for dinner on Wednesday, and slipped his phone into his pocket. As much as he’d have liked to spend the afternoon reading about Mrs Holmes still feeling the need to check behind her son’s ears for dirt, he did actually have a job to do, even if it did mean working an unscheduled Sunday. 

The surveillance reports coming in were a long way from promising, but Robinson just _had_ to be in London. There was simply no way that he would fuck off with his very recently ex-girlfriend still on the loose, not as long as he thought that there was a chance he could silence her before the police caught up with her. What he didn’t know, of course, was that they already had her in a cell, looking at eight to ten years for breaking an impressive array of drug laws, and Greg was doing his damnedest to catch the bastard before he caught wind of it. The intel they’d got from her had been invaluable, allowing them to narrow the search down to a couple of deeply dodgy areas in Peckham.

He was part way through a report about a man who bore a passing-if-you-squinted resemblance to Robinson visiting Boots in Rye Lane to buy a box of haemorrhoid cream when his desk phone rang.

“DCI Lestrade,” he barked, eyes moving on to the next report despairingly, fervently hoping that the caller was going to give him something solid to go on. “Give me some good news.”

“Sir, it’s Belling, and I’m about to rock your world. We’ve had eyes on The White Horse and we’ve _definitely_ got activity. One of Robinson’s goons went in ten minutes ago, and a taxi just dropped two more of them off. I reckon they know something we don’t.” His sergeant’s voice held an urgency that set Greg’s heart racing, the thrill of that indefinable _something_ that had led him into the force in the first place. 

“About bloody time,” he replied emphatically, standing from his chair quickly enough that the wheels squeaked in protest. “Stay where you are and _don't_ engage without backup. I’m on my way.” 

Mobile pressed to his ear, Greg dashed out of his office, the door slamming in his wake. “I need a response team at The White Horse in Peckham, _now_. Have them report to DS Belling.”

Mentally cursing Sunday staffing levels, Greg seized upon the only other member of his team on site. “Kapoor, with me. Looks like Robinson’s coming out to play.”

“About bloody time,” the constable replied. He locked his computer and was on his feet with gratifying speed. “Where’re we off to, boss? Is he in Peckham like we thought?”

“Looks like it. Belling’s got activity at one of his old haunts.” Greg got to the stairwell, trusting that his constable would be on his heels, and pulled his mobile out to check for updates. The stairs were always quicker than the lifts from their seventh floor office, especially when taken two at a time, and they reached the underground car park within minutes. He homed in on his lucky pool car and made for the driver’s side, adrenaline flooding his body. They were going to get this bastard: he could feel it. 

“I’ll drive, sir,” Kapoor said, an edge of urgency in his voice. “No offence, but you drive like my seventy year old nani.”

Greg bit back a laugh and, knowing that he was right, walked around the front of the BMW to the passenger side. He’d done advanced driving, passed it comfortably, but he’d never really enjoyed it and he was a long way from being the best driver on his team. Still, he _was_ the boss and had a reputation to maintain. “Get us there in less than twenty minutes, and I won’t sack you for that.” 

Kapoor grinned at him, radiating the kind of enthusiasm that only came from knowing that the end of the chase was near, and pulled out of the parking bay with an entirely unnecessary squeal of tyres. “You’re on.”

London whizzed past in a blaze of blue lights, other vehicles frantically jumping out of their way as Kapoor ploughed his way through the streets, a slightly maniacal expression gracing his handsome face. “You _do_ realise that it will royally screw up this team’s solve rate if you kill us en route.”

“I’m the best driver you’ve got, boss, and you know it.” Supremely confident, and rightly so, Kapoor took a sharp right. 

“Yeah, and that bus was far too close for comfort. _Jesus_ , you’re mad.” Greg was gripping the handle above the door instinctively, silently praying that he and life were not on the verge of parting company.

“Not mad, just good,” Kapoor said, laughter barely restrained. “You said in under twenty minutes, yeah? How’s fifteen for you?”

“You’re a show off.” Greg clung to the handle, holding on for dear lift. “Criminals have been trying to kill me for twenty five years and now one of my own constables is going to bloody do it.”

“Have _some_ faith in me, sir.” They were now only a few streets away from the White Horse, and Kapoor slowed to a legal speed so as not to draw attention. “I want to see this bastard behind bars as much as you do; I’m not going to kill us before we’ve got him.”

Greg’s mobile vibrated urgently in his pocket as they approached Rye Street. “Lestrade,” he snapped, and was pleased to hear Belling's voice on the other end of the line.

“Robinson’s just gone in, sir, an unknown bloke with him. I’m going in with the response team now,” she said, voice slightly distorted as she ran, and then the line went dead.

Blood singing with adrenaline as Kapoor brought the car to a screeching halt, Greg glanced at the clock. “Sixteen minutes: your job’s safe this time,” he said, unfolding himself from the passenger seat as quickly as his fifty four year old body would allow, eyes fixed on The White Horse. There were two panda cars and a police van outside, and he could hear sirens wailing in the distance. Robinson and his crew were nasty bastards, thinking themselves Peckham’s answer to the Crays; the more cops they had on the ground, the better as far as Greg was concerned. 

His attention focused as it was on the brawl playing out through the windows of the pub, Greg failed to properly take in his surroundings before he made to cross the road. It was a rookie mistake, one he’d have flayed any of his team alive for, but it was far too late to correct it by the time he realised what was coming. 

“Greg! Move!” Kapoor shouted, desperation and fear ringing loud and clear over the squeal of tyres.

But it was too late.


	3. Pain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It feels like I've been working on this chapter forever. I'm struggling with Crohn's disease at the moment, and it's not leaving me with much energy for writing. I do, however, know exactly where this is going and have a plan for the remaining chapters, and they will be written. Just not as quickly as I'd like. 
> 
> A world of thanks to the lovely Cindy Lou Who for beta'ing and being generally wonderful.

“Don’t say it,” Greg snarled as soon as Kapoor drew back the cubicle curtain. “Don’t even _think_ it.”

Lips twitching, the younger man pushed a hospital-issue wheelchair up alongside the bed and applied the brakes. “Robinson’s in custody, sir. The rest of his crew, too.” His eyes flicked to Greg’s left wrist, which was encased in a cast, and his lips twitched again. “I don’t know about you, but I’d call getting them all in one go like that a lucky break.”

“Very funny,” Greg groaned, making a rude gesture with his good hand. He was well and truly in for it from his team - and probably the rest of Scotland Yard - when they got wind of this, and it was entirely his own fault. Laboriously, he looked at his arm and sighed. Of all the stupid things he’d done in his fifty four years, stepping directly into the path of an oncoming car was vying for the top spot, and he wanted nothing more than to get home and forget that the whole day had happened. “Now, get me out of here if you want to keep your job.”

“Yes, sir,” Kapoor replied, fighting a smile, and gestured grandly at the wheelchair. “Your carriage awaits.”

Carefully, Greg levered himself up with his good arm. His head pounded and queasiness spiked as he moved, the ground seeming to slope away from him. He waved Kapoor back when the younger man moved to assist, dignity not willing to tolerate any further knocks. “It’s a concussion, not an amputation,” he snapped, walking unsteadily past the wheelchair and out of the cubicle. “I’ll be right as rain by morning.”

“You were _hit by a car_. Do you want taking somewhere someone can keep an eye on you for the night?”

“No,” Greg bristled. “I’m taking the pills and going straight to bed. Not even _I_ need supervision to do that.”

“You sure? You look like a stiff wind’ll knock you over, sir.”

Nerves frayed by pain and embarrassment, hearing that he looked as weak as he felt was the last thing he wanted. “Yes,” he growled. “Home. Pills. Bed. Simple.”

Kapoor inclined his head and let it go. “The superintendent said to tell you ‘not to even think about coming in tomorrow’ and called you a few names I won’t repeat, but ‘fucking idiot’ was used more than once.” There was far too much amusement in his voice for Greg’s liking, but he didn’t have enough wits about him to do a damned thing about it. The pounding in his skull was distracting, and it was all he could do to successfully put one foot in front of the other.

After what seemed like an eternity, the hospital’s main entrance glowed like a beacon and the promise of freedom enough to spur Greg on to picking the pace up, painful though it was. There was a long, long list of things that he despised about hospitals, but the pervasive smell of disinfectant, illness, and despair was right there at the top of the list. He breathed in deeply as soon as they stepped out of the building, London’s attempt at fresh air filling his lungs. “Thank fuck for that,” he breathed emphatically, despite way the pounding in his head escalated in response to daylight.

“Not walking out into oncoming traffic’s a fairly good way of avoiding these places if you don’t like them, boss,” Kapoor replied, guiding Greg towards the nearest unoccupied bench. “I’m going to get the car.”

Greg grunted and gingerly lowered himself onto the bench, but his constable was long gone by the time his concussed brain had come up with a snarky threat about insubordination and job security. It wasn’t until a couple of old dears ambling past gave him concerned looks that he realised he’d said it aloud, anyway. Face distinctly warm about the cheeks, he diverted his attention to watching the street as he waited, and tried not to be too alarmed when his mind was working too slowly to process much beyond ‘big and red’ about the passing vehicles.

In his addled state, watching the traffic pass was more a more than adequate entertainment while he waited, and, with an apparent upturn in the day’s luck, it seemed that between one blink of the eye and the next a police car was pulling up the kerb immediately in front of him.

With a winsome grin, Kapoor lowered the window. “Taxi for DCI Lestrade.”

“About bloody time.” Greg heaved himself up, fighting not to lose the contents of his stomach when the movement caused his queasiness to spike. He crossed the pavement carefully, telling himself that the ground wasn’t actually trying to eat him. 

“I’m off duty so I’m allowed to say this without you sacking me: you’re not half a grouchy bastard when you’re hurt.”

“Shut up and drive,” Greg replied with bad grace, because he _was_ a grouchy bastard when he was hurt.

Greg’s head was very grateful when the journey home was nothing like as exciting as the one to The White Horse. Kapoor drove carefully, smoothly navigating the streets of London until they were within streets of Greg’s Bexley flat. “Are you _sure_ you don’t want me to call someone? You don’t look too good, sir,” Kapoor said as they passed the Tesco on Blackfen Road. “What about the bloke you’ve been seeing that none of us are meant know anything about?” Sluggishly, Greg turned to look at his constable, frantically searching for a rebuttal. “You practically glow every Thursday, Lestrade. Belling and Spall think you’ve got a girlfriend, but the stubble burn the other week...well, I _am_ a detective.”

“When you’re off duty, it’s ‘Greg’,” he replied distractedly. Brief thought was given to denying it, but Greg quickly realised he had neither the wits nor energy to do so. “It’s not serious, and I’m _not_ calling him,” he deflected, closing his eyes when the buildings passing made his vision swim. “I’d appreciate it if you could keep this to yourself.”

“No problem. But you know it’s not the eighties anymore, yeah?” Kapoor replied, turning onto Greg’s road. Large Victorian houses that had been converted into flats over the course of the last century lined the street, and, though there was nothing special about them, the older man had never been so happy to see them. 

“Thank fuck for that; the music was shite and my hair was worse.” Greg unbuckled his seatbelt as they pulled up outside his flat. “Good work on this case, Bal. Keep it up and you’ll be coming for my job in a couple of years.”

“Nah. I don’t fancy spending the rest of my life tied to a desk, thanks very much,” replied the younger man, visibly pleased nonetheless. “Night, Greg.”

Greg levered himself out of the car with a grunt and closed the door with a vague thanks for the lift. His whole body was throbbing and his arm felt like it was on fire, but he made the short walk to the front door without landing on his face, which he was more than willing to count as a success. Getting the front door open presented something more of a challenge; he eventually managed it with far too much fumbling of his keys and rather more swearing than was probably strictly necessary.

“Thank _fuck_ ,” he muttered as the door finally lost the battle. His flat was a higgledy piggledy series of nooks and crannies on the ground floor, as flats in old buildings were. It had been an absolute shithole when he’d bought it, but three years’ hard work and far too many weekends of DIY and it was finally home. A signed League of Gentlemen poster, courtesy of Mycroft for his fiftieth birthday, hung on the living room wall next to a photo of his girls and grandkids, and a recent photo of him and his best mate proudly holding last season’s league trophy stood on the bookcase that housed his impressive DVD collection. 

After limping to the kitchen for a can of Coke, which he opened with far too much difficulty, Greg hunted out the box of dihydrocodeine left over from the last time he’d wound up injured at work. Two tablets later, he gingerly lowered himself onto the sofa and reached for the remote, moaning when the movement aggravated the aching in his side. He knew from long experience that strong pain meds made him loopy and that he’d have been better taking them with food, but Mycroft always turned up within half an hour of him getting home injured, normally bearing take away, so he hadn’t bothered getting anything. 

The TV came alive, Midsomer Murders playing in all of its painful glory. He considered turning over as soon as DCI Barnaby’s face twisted into a thoughtful pout, but suddenly couldn’t be arsed. The oxycodone was doing its thing, the pain becoming less sharp around the edges; the world around him growing hazy, and it didn't take long for him to start drifting. A bang from the flat upstairs jarred him out of his stupor, and a glance at his watch showed that thirty five minutes had passed without him noticing. He looked at the door, a cold weight settling in his gut when he realised that Mycroft wasn’t coming. There had never been an acknowledged arrangement of any kind, but if Greg was injured or ill Mycroft would arrive with food and keep him company. That’s how it had been for at least five years, and it _hurt_ that the younger man was breaking form. No, Greg hadn’t let him know what had happened, but he’d never needed to in the past. 

Not able to process how he was feeling, or why the pain of realising that his friend wasn’t coming was somehow sharper than the pain from his broken arm, Greg closed his eyes. The darkness was welcome respite, and he was asleep within minutes.


	4. The Iceman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The League of Gentlemen references in this chapter just kind of happened.
> 
> Beta'd by the wonderful CindyLouWho.

Three days. It had been _three days_ since Greg had forsaken common sense and walked out in front of a car. For most of that time, he had been thoroughly miserable. His left wrist felt like it was comprised of shards of glass, his head ached abominably, and a spectacular array of bruising had bloomed across his torso. No amount of wheedling had convinced his boss to let him back to work until his GP agreed that he was fit for desk duty, either, so he hadn’t even had paperwork to distract him from his woes. 

But, as much as the constant pain had been bothering him, it was the almost total lack of contact from Mycroft that had hurt the most. When he’d heard nothing by Monday lunchtime, Greg had text him, asking how the rest of the visit to his parents had gone. When the other man eventually replied, over three hours later, the response had left Greg feeling cold all over. He’d sat and stared at the words - _I’m very busy. I’ll be in touch about Wednesday_ \- for a good thirty seconds without blinking. Not that Mycroft was a man prone to idle chit-chat, but he’d long since humoured Greg with tidbits of his day and apparent interest in Greg’s own. He’d replied, asking if Mycroft was okay, but hadn’t received a response. Had it been anyone else, he’d have put it down to them having a bad day, but this was Mycroft Holmes: bad days were rarely brave enough to go near him. No, it may only have been one text message, but, in combination with his non-appearance on Sunday evening and dearth of any other communication, Greg had arrived at the inescapable conclusion that he was being frozen out. It had definitely started with his altercation with the car, but why _that_ would give Mycroft the hump, Greg had no idea.

Luckily, he’d had plenty of other distractions. Mrs Hudson had bustled in with a box of homemade shortbread, a bag of groceries, and taken over his kitchen to cook him the best roast he’d had in months on the Monday evening, Kapoor had stopped by on Tuesday morning to update him on the Robinson case, and Jack - his eldest child - had stopped by with the twins when they’d finished school on Tuesday afternoon. Between the visits, phone calls from his mum and sister, and even a few texts from Sherlock, he’d been able to keep his mind from ruminating on what the _fuck_ was going on with Holmes the elder. Well, not quite, but he’d certainly made a concerted effort. 

Greg usually relished Wednesdays, had done since long before they’d added excellent sex to the equation, but this one had arrived with an unwanted sense of apprehension and an unnerving certainty that it wasn’t going to end well. Between the pain from his injuries and embarrassment at how he’d received them, Greg was feeling more than a bit sorry for himself; he fervently hoped that his suspicion that everything was going to go tits up was wrong, because a night of good company was _exactly_ what he needed. 

He’d distracted himself with getting his laundry done and mentally slating crap police procedural shows, and relaxed slightly when one of Mycroft’s staff had called to tell him that they had a reservation at Luigi’s for seven thirty. It was one of their regular restaurants, not far from The Tower of London, but, tucked as it was down an alley, tended to be missed by the hordes of tourists that swarmed the area. It had been a while since they’d eaten there, but if the place was still on Mycroft’s approved list it must still be up to snuff. 

The time between getting the call and needing to leave, Greg had taken a long nap and puttered semi-productively around the flat; between the ridiculous hours he’d been pulling on the Robinson case and his recent injuries, his flat had got into a bit of a state. Getting his laundry and pots done with such limited use of his left hand had definitely been an achievement, but he was still dangerously close to running out of milk and bread, and if his mum had seen the bathroom he’d have been grounded until Christmas. Online shopping took care of his grocery woes, and, with much swearing, he eventually got the bathroom into something like acceptable condition. By the time Greg was done, his body felt like it was never going to stop aching but there was only a bit over half an hour before he had to leave, so it had definitely been an effective time killing exercise. 

A quick, refreshing shower later, Greg stood in front of the mirror and ran a gel-covered hand through his still-damp hair, eyeing his reflection critically. Dressed in a pair of trousers that did fantastic things for his arse, and the dark blue shirt that Mycroft seemed to favour, Greg decided that he didn’t look half bad for a man who’d been knocked over three days ago. He couldn’t get his shirt to settle properly over the bulky splint straps, but that was about the worst of it as long as he didn’t look too closely.

Greg would usually have taken the Tube, but, as sore as he still was, he didn’t fancy having every Tom, Dick, and Harry knocking into him on the way there, so a taxi it was. Waiting for it to arrive, he arsed around on Facebook. His daughter, Charlie, was in Spain for the week with friends, and, glad as he was that she was having a good time, it was a real battle not to comment ‘go and put some bloody clothes on’ when he saw a picture of them lounging beside the pool. He continued to scroll idly, smiling properly for the first time in days on coming to a picture of his twin granddaughters mid-laugh and covered in mud. He saved that one, planning to get it printed as soon as possible, and carried on scrolling. 

Half way through a Guardian article about rumours of President Trump throwing a strop at ten Downing Street, his phone pinged with an alert: his taxi, being driven by Ross Gaines, had arrived. With a surge of anxiety, Greg got up, slipped his phone into his pocket, checked for his wallet, and headed out. It was a warm but muggy evening, the air heavy as he crossed the pavement to where the silver Auris was idling.

“Alright, mate,” Ross greeted as Greg carefully slid himself into the back seat. 

“Yeah, not bad,” replied Greg, quickly turning his attention back to his phone in the hope that it would discourage the other man from talking too much. 

His strategy failed spectacularly; Ross kept up a steady stream of random chatter as he navigated the tail end of London’s rush hour, as was the wont of taxi drivers. Greg dipped in and out, commenting occasionally and grunting in a way that was meant to be discouraging. That, too, failed, and Greg was regaled with everything from the time a naked bloke had jumped into the back seat, with a furious, cricket bat wielding husband hot on his tail, to the time he’d picked that Benedict Cumbernauld up from Victoria station. Greg’s attention was largely on the world outside the window, watching as day morphed into evening and London seemed to relax, but Ross apparently failed to notice that his passenger couldn’t give a toss about his famous fares, and kept right on rambling. 

After what felt like an age, the car pulled up to the kerb just outside the mouth of the alley down which Luigi’s was nestled. Apprehension seemed to settle across Greg’s shoulders as he paid the fare, the end of the journey signalling the start of what he _knew_ was going to be a difficult evening. With Mycroft, what he _didn’t_ say was often louder than what he did, and the silence after communicating in one way or another every day spoke volumes. 

Greg eased himself out of the taxi with a pained grimace. His side and head were throbbing, and the pain from his wrist was approaching the point at which he would gladly chop it off if it meant some respite, but he’d decided not to take the good painkillers. He and Mycroft usually split a bottle or two of wine and finished off with a few measures of the younger man’s good scotch back at his flat, and Greg knew exactly how daft he’d get if he mixed _that_ with his pills. 

The the narrow, winding alley, with its original cobbles and traditional shops, was one of the area’s hidden gems, but Greg paid it no attention as he made for the restaurant. He briefly stalled at the door, taking a moment to tell himself to get a fucking grip, and pushed the door open.

“Evening, Greg,” Karl, one of the regular waiters, greeted. “Mr Holmes is at your usual table.” 

Greg picked his way carefully towards the back of the room, where their table set was back into an alcove. It commanded the best view in the place, had a direct line of sight on the door, and was nowhere near the toilets, which made it a winner in Greg’s eyes. The smooth, uneven flagstone floor and tightly packed tables made it a job and a half to actually get there, especially when the place was busy, but the food, atmosphere, and wine list made it worth it.

Back ramrod straight, and attention wholly on his phone, was Mycroft Holmes. He was dressed in a dark grey three piece suit with a cold blue tie, yet somehow managed to blend in with his surroundings, despite the fact that everyone else was in smart casual dress appropriate for the heatwave the country had been hit by.

As Greg approached the table, he couldn’t help but notice that Mycroft was already breaking with their customs; there was no bottle of wine on the table, but, instead, there was a single glass of white in front of him. Greg’s apprehension increased tenfold. 

“Alright?” he asked, taking the seat opposite.

“Yes, thank you,” Mycroft replied, a distinctly frosty edge to his voice. His laser-like gaze was appraising, and Greg felt it to his core. “Which is more than can be said for you.”

Using the wine menu as an excuse for not looking at the other man, Greg replied, “Yeah, but you should see the other guy.”

“Hmm, yes. A black two thousand and nine Vauxhall Astra, I believe, and I very much doubt that you left it with a concussion, bruised ribs, or a broken wrist.” 

Greg’s face heated, though with embarrassment, anger, or both, he couldn’t tell. Not that he’d doubted it, but Mycroft had just confirmed that he _knew_ of Greg’s accident, _knew_ that he’d been injured, and hadn’t asked after him even once. “Nope,” he agreed, doing his damnedest not to tell him to fuck the hell off. “I decided to let it off this time.”

Something flickered in Mycroft’s eyes, something that Greg couldn’t place. “How very magnanimous.”

Karl’s arrival forestalled the need for Greg to reply, for which he was very grateful. “Give me a minute?” he asked with a distracted smile, and picked up the neglected food menu. 

“I doubt that you’ll need that long; you have the same thing every time we dine here.” Greg knew that he wasn’t alone in hearing the derisive edge in Mycroft’s voice when Karl shifted uncomfortably beside their table. “He’ll have the rib eye steak - medium rare - and a large glass of the twenty fifteen Rioja. I’ll have the lemon sole and another glass of the twenty fifteen Riesling,” Mycroft ordered. “Oh, and see that Greg’s steak is cut into pieces before it’s brought out, if you would be so kind.”

As soon as Karl left, headed back in the direction of the kitchen, Greg’s hold on his tongue snapped. “What the _hell_ – ”

“– I’m drawing the sexual element of our acquaintance to a close,” Mycroft interrupted, expression and tone absolutely bland.

The sounds of chatter and cutlery on plates faded into nothing, and Greg felt like he’d been punched in the gut. Mycroft’s pronouncement wasn’t entirely unexpected given the lack of contact, but it still hurt, and he _still_ didn’t know what the fuck he’d actually _done_. “Why?”

“I find that our arrangement is no longer as satisfying as it was.” Swirling the contents of his glass, Mycroft pinned Greg a with cold look. “I trust that you’re not going to be difficult.”

That, Greg knew full well, was a bare-faced lie. The expressions Mycroft had worn and the noises he’d made last time they’d been together spoke volumes about how ‘satisfying’ he’d found it. Greg had been around the block more than enough times to be able to spot when someone was faking it, and _that_ hadn’t been faked. “Right. If you say so,” he said, tension building painfully behind his eyes, and reined in the urge to call him a lying bastard, because that way lay madness. “Can I ask what the _fuck’s_ with the attiude, or is that being ‘difficult’?”

“Really, must you swear so loudly? This isn’t The Mason’s Arms,” Mycroft sneered, putting his glass down with a clink. 

Greg’s resolve snapped. “I’m in pain, I’m confused, and you’re being an absolute bastard; I’ll swear as much as I like,” he replied, somehow keeping his voice down. “Now, what the _hell’s_ wrong?”

Apparently finding them fascinating, Mycroft studied his fingernails. “Are you sufficiently recovered from your concussion for the unabridged list, or would you prefer the selected highlights?” He looked up and met Greg’s gaze. It had been a long time since he’d seen this side of Mycroft - several years, in fact - but he now realised that he wasn’t sitting with his friend and occasional lover: this was the Iceman. “The situation with the European Union has been –”

“– No.” He’d had _enough_. Moving less carefully than he should, Greg pushed his chair back, the wooden legs screeching on the flagstone floor. “Whatever the fuck your problem is, I’m done.” He stood, the throbbing down his side telling him that he’d done so too quickly, but he was too angry to care. Something about the surge of anger after three days of pain and worry was cathartic; it crackled in his veins, overriding some of the pain as he used his injured hand to withdraw his wallet. Greg dropped a fifty pound note onto the table and clutched his wallet in his good hand. “Your cock’s not that amazing, Mycroft, and if this is what you call not letting sex affect our friendship, you know where you can stick it.”

The air outside was less stuffy and intense, and Greg breathed in gratefully. Determinedly keeping what had just transpired away from the fore of his mind, he set off back towards the main road at the mouth of the alley. If his hands were shaking, he paid them no mind, and treated the knowledge that his closest friendship had just fallen apart around his head in the same way. Home, a couple of beers, and a pizza, he decided, flagging down the first taxi to appear. He bit back a groan when he saw that it was being driven by Ross, the over-talkative cabbie, and mentally amended his plan, substituting the ‘couple of beers’ for ‘scotch, and a lot of it’.


	5. Matters of the Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by CindyLouWho, a very wonderful lady.

As soon as he opened the door, a deeply unpleasant smell, reminiscent of burnt flesh, hit Greg in the face. Nothing looked out of place, but that meant bugger all when the place smelt like _that_. “What the fuck?” he muttered, following his nose down the hall, through the living room, and into the kitchen.

What he was expecting to find, Greg couldn’t have said, but Sherlock, swaying slightly on the spot with his back to the door and humming God Save the Queen wasn’t it.

“God, that stinks. What the _hell_ are you doing?” Greg demanded, eye widening when he registered that there was a _heart_ on his chopping board.

Sherlock stopped humming and turned, a singed chunk of heart speared on the tines of one of Greg’s good forks. “An experiment,” Sherlock replied, the ‘obviously, you idiot’ unspoken but hanging heavily in the air.

“With a sodding heart, in _my_ kitchen!” Greg looked properly at the fork Sherlock was holding and stomped forward to snatch it from him, heart and all. “Those were my grand-mere’s, you tosspot,” he snapped, putting the fork safely out of the way and turning the gas ring off.

“She doesn’t need them anymore, and you only use them for ‘special occasions’, of which you’ve had precisely none for the last four years and three months.” Sherlock peered at the chunk of heart with an air of satisfaction.

“Yeah, that’s not the point.” With a sigh, Greg took a bottle of London Pride from the fridge. His team - which was meant to be one the best over fifties’ teams in London - had lost one nil to a bunch of amateurs from Essex, and he was in an absolutely foul mood. Getting home to find Sherlock pratting around in his kitchen on top of that was the very last thing he needed.

Sherlock turned an assessing gaze on Greg and rolled his eyes. “It’s a game, Lestrade.”

“Yeah, a game we should have _won_. Christ, I’d have nailed the penalty Jenkins ballsed up with my eyes shut.”

“Hmm. Perhaps you should forgo walking out into oncoming traffic in the future. I doubt that bruised ribs or a broken wrist would have been much help,” Sherlock smirked with a pointed glance at Greg’s splint.

“Piss off,” Greg snapped. Sherlock was spot on, of course, but that didn’t mean that Greg hadn’t entertained the idea of trying, even if it was only a week after he’d been hit by a car. “Are you going to tell me why you’ve decided to do whatever it is you’re doing in my kitchen, or am I throwing you out?”

“I’d like to see you try,” Sherlock scoffed. He picked his phone up from the counter, glanced at it briefly, and slipped it into his pocket. “I needed to see you.”

“That’s not what I want to hear on a Sunday afternoon, Sherlock.” Greg left the kitchen with the feeling that his day was about to get a whole lot worse, the precious bottle of London Pride clutched protectively, and wandered into the living room. It was a mess, with a couple of empty pizza boxes and the detritus of a weekend spent drinking too much scattered hither and yon, but it had certainly been worse. “I’ve not been at work so you can get lost if you’re after a case.”

Greg lowered himself onto the sofa, relaxing into the plush back cushion with a grateful moan. The sofa had been a splurge, but he had a healthy income and a comfortable home was worth its weight in gold after a hard day at work. He knew immediately when Sherlock appeared in the doorway, despite having his eyes closed; the younger man had a definite presence, the air in the room seemingly drawn to him like he was the centre of gravity. He wasn’t the only Holmes who had that affect, either, but Greg pushed that thought away before it had fully coalesced.

“I have a case,” came Sherlock’s smug reply as he dropped into the armchair with a bottle of Pride, a somehow elegant tangle of limbs. “But I needed data. Thank you for obliging.”

It took a long moment for Greg to parse that out, and he frowned when he did. “Why did you need _me_ for data? And what the hell does the heart have to do with it?”

Sherlock waved his free hand negligently. “That was to kill the time. You have a kitchen and Mrs Hudson objects to me keeping body parts at home now that Rosie’s walking.” Somewhat miffed, he continued, “She seems to think that they’re inappropriate.”

Biting back a laugh, Greg drank. “So, what have I got to do with your case? Don’t tell me someone’s finally onto the DAC’s porn collection.”

“Nope,” Sherlock replied, popping the ‘p’ and wearing a worryingly gleeful expression. “You have _everything_ to do with my case: you’re the solution.”

“You what?” Greg scoffed. He’d done absolutely nothing of interest for so long that it sometimes felt like he’d forgotten what being interesting felt like. “What’s this case, then?”

“My brother.” Smirking his best ‘I’m a high-functioning sociopath’ smirk, Sherlock turned his bottle in his right hand. “I’ve been engaged by Mycroft’s employer. He reduced her private secretary to tears, is apparently terrorising the upper echelons of the civil service, the Prime Minister’s office is still apologising to the Americans for the incident with the President at Downing Street, and she wants to know why.”

A cold feeling settled in Greg’s gut. “And what, exactly, has Mycroft being a bastard got to do with me? Go back to whichever paper-pusher pulls his strings and tell her to sack him if she can’t control him.”

Sherlock’s smirk widened. “I’ll tell Her Majesty that your solution is to sack the most powerful man on this landmass, shall I?”

“Her Ma—the _Queen’s_ his sodding employer?” Greg squawked. He’d known that Mycroft was about as connected as it was possible to get, but going _that_ high up the food chain? “You’re serious.”

“Didn’t you listen when I told you that Mycroft’s the most dangerous man you’ll ever meet?” Sherlock asked, swinging his bottle insouciantly between his fingers, and taking far too much pleasure the conversation for Greg’s liking. “An asset like my brother can’t be trusted to the hands of the idiots who inhabit the Houses of Parliament or Whitehall.”

Stunned, Greg drained the remainder of his beer. With an effort, he pushed that information to the back of his mind. Well, tried to, because he knew that he’d need all his wits about him to survive this conversation with anything like dignity. “Mycroft being in a snit’s got nothing to do with me. He wants to be a twat, that's on him.”

“Don’t be an idiot, Lestrade: it’s got everything to do with you. As I said, Mycroft is my case, but _you’re_ the solution.” Sherlock looked around the room and Greg felt distinctly uncomfortable, because he knew exactly how much Sherlock could read in the smallest of details. “You broke my brother, so you need to fix him.”

Greg shook his head, the anger and hurt that he’d been trying to supress for the last week rising like a wave. When the full force of it hit, he got up and went to get another beer. “Your brother’s a bastard, and I’m not talking about this with you.”

“Yes, you are,” Sherlock told Greg when he returned with his drink. “Mycroft hurt you.”

“Yeah, he fucking did,” Greg snapped, recognising the futility of trying to bullshit his way out of this. He’d never been able to lie to the little sod, and doubted that his ability to do so had improved enough within the last half hour. “We’ve been friends for _years_ and he’s just shut me out.”

“Your relationship is hardly that of friends, Lestrade. If it is, John and I are doing something _very_ wrong.”

Feeling himself flush, Greg took a healthy drink, trying to buy himself some time to think. “Friends with benefits is the term you’re looking for.”

“No, it’s more than that,” Sherlock countered, eyes intent upon Greg’s. “If it _was_ simply friends with benefits, you wouldn’t have spent the three days since your last date drinking, and Mycroft wouldn’t be on the verge of having the Prime Minister assassinated.”

Nettled, Greg glared at Sherlock. “I haven’t spent three days drinking, and we _don’t_ go on ‘dates’.”

Crossing one long leg over the other and wearing a smirk that made Greg want to throw something at him, Sherlock asked, “No? What would you call them?”

“We go out for dinner, Sherlock. Mates do that sometimes,” replied Greg, trying not to think about just how date-like some of their dinners had become of late.

“Hmm, yes. Tell me, how many of your other friends do you go home for postprandial sex with?” Sherlock was apparently in a generous mood; he cut Greg’s attempt at defending himself off before he’d managed to move past turning red with embarrassment. “Your arrangement with my brother went past friends with benefits when you started spending the night. You’ve developed ‘feelings’ for him, as you were bound to. So much, so obvious, even with your attempt at repression.” Sherlock leant forward in his hair, elbows braced on his knees, and steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “What was less obvious at the outset was that _Mycroft_ would be afflicted, too.”

“I haven’t – Mycroft’s doesn’t – _Afflicted_?” Greg snapped, trying – and failing – to deal with all of it once.

“Are you being deliberately obtuse? Yes, afflicted. My brother is very clearly suffering from a nasty case of sentiment and doesn't know how to treat it. It’s the only reasonable explanation for such a drastic change in his behaviour, and you need to do something about it.”

“You’re barking up the wrong tree,” Greg countered, willing away the fluttering of hope in his gut before Sherlock could read it in the twitch in his left eyebrow. “And I’d be grateful if you fucked off and did it somewhere else.”

“Oh, so you have another explanation for why his behaviour changed so drastically after your accident.” Sherlock’s gaze sharpened challengingly. “Let’s hear it."

But the truth of the matter was that he _didn’t_ have another explanation. It had seemed that Mycroft had gone from texting playfully to completely freezing Greg out in the blink of an eye, and the only possible reason was Greg’s accident. But that _still_ didn’t explain Mycroft’s stinking attitude. He’d been more seriously injured several times during the years that they’d known each other, but the other man had never reacted like this. There had been hospital visits, and evenings at Greg’s flat with take away, and his shopping and cleaning seeming to take care of themselves while he was asleep. There had never been so much as a hint of the cold shoulder or the first class bastardry that had characterised their interactions over the last week, and the only explanation that fit all of the facts was that them having sex had changed things. 

“No, I didn’t think so,” Sherlock smirked. “Now, if you’ve finished trying to delude yourself, perhaps we can return to the problem at hand.”

Of all the things Greg needed when feeling emotionally and physically drained, a smug Sherlock Holmes was absolutely the bottom of the list, and he felt himself bristle. “Piss off. Your brother’s a bastard and that _isn’t_ my problem.” 

Sherlock sat upright in his chair and drummed his fingers on the arms. “My brother _is_ your problem, and has been since he became attached to you.”

“Even if - _if_ \- him turning into a first class cunt has got something to do with me, what, exactly, do you want me to do about it? He wasn't responding to my messages, barely spoke at dinner, and, when he did, all I wanted to do was smack him in the mouth.”

“I've got no idea: sentiment isn’t my area,” Sherlock declared, standing suddenly. “But I can tell you that sitting around feeling sorry for yourself isn’t helping, and neither is attempting to wait out my brother. He’s always been unbearably stubborn.”

“ _He_ was the one who —”

Sherlock cut Greg off with an impatient wave of his hand. “Yes, yes, Mycroft is an emotionally stunted, insufferable windbag.” He crossed to the front door and stopped with his left hand on the door handle. “But you aren’t. Fix it, Greg.”

Despite thirteen years’ exposure to Sherlock, their interactions still often left Greg feeling slightly lost and wondering what the fuck had just happened, and the past half an hour hadn’t been an exception. In desperate need of another drink, Greg got up and headed into the kitchen as soon as the front door closed behind Sherlock, only to find something that made him turn the air blue: the heart Sherlock had been playing with was secured to the chopping board, oozing blood, with one of his good knives. 

“Oh, you bastard,” Greg growled to the empty room as the decision to abandon his flat in favour of The Mason’s Arms made itself.


	6. The Art of Procrastination

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this was meant to be the last chapter, but is has somehow become three. Chapter seven is written and chapter eight is very nearly there. I intend to have them both up by the end of the week. 
> 
> Thanks to CindyLouWho for beta'ing and support.

Within minutes of Sherlock swanning off, Greg had decided that he was going to have to take the bull by the horns and do something about this mess with Mycroft. If Sherlock was right - and when was the little fucker ever wrong? - the elder brother was going through the Holmesian version of emo angst, and at the root of it lay Greg’s accident. Not that he believed for a moment that Sherlock had been engaged by The Queen, but he certainly didn’t doubt that an angsting Mycroft was making himself more than slightly unpopular in the circles within which he moved. After all, Greg had lasted all of ten minutes with him, and he actually _liked_ the man. 

Injured party or not, he was the one with experience dealing with real people, and it was becoming obvious that, left to his own devices, Mycroft was going to leave things as they were. The two of them had never had a conventional friendship, but what they had was no less valuable for that, and Greg wasn’t going to give it up because the most intelligent man on the landmass didn’t know what to do with emotion.

Making the decision that he was going to do something about it, however, had not led to immediate action. The radio silence from Mycroft after his injury had been painful, and he’d still been muttering darkly about Wednesday night’s fiasco when he’d left to watch his team get slaughtered that morning. As was his wont when he didn’t want to do something, Greg procrastinated. And then he procrastinated some more. In fact, Greg’s procrastination lasted until just gone eight o’clock in the evening. He’d watched some truly appalling football on the television, spent the best part on an hour on the phone to Ash, a mate going through something of a messy divorce, and even spent half an hour organising his ties, despite the fact that there were only three of them. That would normally have been the signal that he was taking avoidance to gold medal standard, but it wasn’t until he realised that he was actually _watching_ The Antiques Roadshow that he strapped on a spine. 

Acting before he lost his bottle, Greg held the pad of his thumb against the home button and, moments later, felt a pang of trepidation when the phone unlocked. Modern phones, Greg mused, had many advantages over their ancestors, but in the moment that he tapped Mycroft’s name, he wasn’t sure if the lack of opportunity to turn and run half way through dialling a number was one of them or not. 

Phone held to his ear, Greg immediately recognised the international dialling tone and was on the verge of cutting the call so as not to interrupt what was undoubtedly a work trip when the line connected. “What has he done this time, Detective Chief Inspector?” 

The greeting was bland with a dash of resignation, and it was so reminiscent of their early conversations that Greg couldn’t help a small smile. “Oh, you know, the usual. Broke into my flat and butchered pig offal in my kitchen, and then made me feel like an idiot,” Greg replied with a concerted effort to keep his voice light. “But I’m not calling about Sherlock.”

“In that case, you will have to wait; you’re interrupting a very important event.” 

Despite the frosty edge which had crept into Mycroft’s voice, Greg took the fact that the younger man hadn’t immediately disconnected the call to be a good thing and pushed his luck. “Nope, I’m not waiting. When’re you back?”

There was a brief pause, during which Greg could hear the hubbub in the background. The sounds were muffled enough that he couldn’t hear actual words, but he was positive that people weren’t speaking English. “Tomorrow,” came the uncharacteristically stilted response. “I have a lunch meeting in London.”

“Right.” Greg thought fast. Mycroft wasn’t putting the phone down despite the call interrupting a ‘very important event’, and nor was he spitting vitriol. Years of acquaintance with the brothers Holmes had given him an almost unique insight into their inner workings, and his best guess was that the other man was wrong-footed by Greg’s persistence. He pressed his advantage. “You owe me dinner, and I’m calling the debt in. My flat after work tomorrow. Let’s say seven-ish.That’ll give you plenty of time to find me something nice to eat.” 

The raising of Mycroft’s left eyebrow was audible, and Greg saw it as clear as day in his mind’s eye. “I hardly think that you’re in a position to be making demands on my time.”

There was no refutation of the debt owed, and nor did he refuse the invitation, unconventional though it was. Greg scented victory. “Oh, but I am. Seven-ish with good food, Mycroft.”

Mycroft’s breathing was the only sound Greg heard for a long moment, until, “I’ll see if my diary can be rearranged.”

The line disconnected and Greg exhaled heavily. His body sagged into the sofa, bruised ribs aching with the sudden lack of tension, and dropped his phone onto the cushion beside him. “Fuck,” he said emphatically. Whoever said that civil servants were boring had never met a real civil servant, in Greg’s considered opinion, because dealing with Mycroft Holmes was _anything_ but boring. 

“Fuck,” he said again, feeling that the sentiment bore repeating. A hell of a lot had been riding on that conversation, and, apparently successful or not, the stress of it was showing. Distinctly jittery around the edges and not liking the feeling one bit, Greg levered himself up and shambled off to spend some quality time with his good scotch.


	7. A Step In The Right Direction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go, and it should be up by the the end of the week, she says with uncharacteristic optimism. 
> 
> Beta'd by CindyLouWho, wonderful woman that she is. 
> 
> This is the longest thing I've written, and it's definitely been a learning curve. Any feed back is given a loving home.

Monday mornings, Greg had long since decided, were mandatory evils that just _happened_ to people, consensual or not. This particular Monday morning, however, was a whole new level of evil, and he was actively considering human sacrifice to get out of it by the time he arrived at work. Not only had he woken up with a nasty hangover thirty five minutes late, but he’d managed to knock his broken wrist on the shower cubicle, and only realised that he’d left his wallet and painkillers on the coffee table when he got to the Tube station. 

By some miracle, the trains were running on time, and it was only a bit gone nine when he arrived at work, harried and distinctly frayed around the edges. 

“Morning, boss,” Belling called, peering at him from behind a file, before he’d even managed to get three steps into the open plan area of the office. It really didn’t take much to rouse curiosity in a room full of cops, and Belling’s cheery greeting was all it took to have a dozen curious heads popping up over their desk dividers like he was walking through a meerkat colony. “Throckmorton said she wants to see you when you’ve got a coffee. Something about making sure you’re fit for work after bouncing off the front of an Astra.” 

“Yeah, yeah, very funny,” Greg groaned, and - like the mature and responsible adult he was - fled in the direction of his office to a chorus of titters from his team. 

Returning to work after being injured in the line of duty usually accorded one a certain respect, but Greg knew that coming back after walking out in front of a car was more likely to get him laughed out of the building than earn him coffee privileges. His misgivings were apparently borne out as soon as he entered his office; right in the centre of his desk was a garish purple cycling helmet, resplendent with sparkly silver stars, framed on either side by a matching shin pad. He snorted a laugh, crossing the small room in a couple of strides, and spotted a sheet of brightly coloured paper laid atop his keyboard. Lifting the sheet, a proper laugh escaped when he recognised it for what it was: a print out of the Green Cross Code. “You bastards,” he said to the empty room, and was totally unsurprised to hear answering snickering from the doorway. 

“Welcome back, boss,” Kapoor grinned, stepping forward from the small cluster of smirking cops and clerical staff as Greg turned to face them. Held in one hand was Greg’s Arsenal mug, from which the very welcome scent of their good coffee was wafting tantalisingly in his direction, and in the other was a stapled sheaf of papers. “The reports about the Robinson case, all done and dusted.”

With a nod of thanks, Greg eagerly relieved Kapoor of the coffee, breathing in the vapours with relish. “Excellent work on this, everyone,” he said, putting the mug down and taking the paperwork. He knew from the updates he’d been getting from the team while he was off that they had more than enough evidence to satisfy the Crown Prosecution Service, but the cherry on top had been DI Harding’s interrogation. An officer he’d poached from Devon when he’d been down there for the Baskerville situation, she was a terrier when she knew that the person in front of her was guilty, and, by all accounts, she’d well and truly ripped Robinson to pieces. “Doughnuts’re on me for the team meeting tomorrow,” Greg promised, putting the reports down beside the purple helmet. “Now, get back to work.”

Harding gave him a smile over her shoulder as she left, the door closing with a click behind her. Greg had been expecting a rougher ride than that, but he wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth, not after the turn his luck had taken recently. As DCI in a Major Investigation Team, he had around fifty staff working under him at any one time, and he’d seen all of about fifteen of them so far. He didn’t doubt for a moment that he’d be in for it properly when the rest of them trickled in over the course of the week, and that was without staff from the division’s other three MITs wandering through to take the piss. Not that he could blame them, mind.

The coffee was fortifying, helping to push the lingering edges of his hangover back until it was a manageable annoyance, and Greg finally felt ready to face the day. Waiting for the computer to boot up, he pulled his phone out and felt an prickle of disappointment at finding the screen a Mycroft-free zone. It’s not like the other man had ever been particularly fond of texting, but Greg had grown used to a steady peppering of texted snark throughout his week, and he’d foolishly hoped that their brief conversation the night before might bring about a return of it. 

“You’re an idiot,” he chastised himself. One very stilted conversation didn’t mean that they were okay, or even that they _would_ be okay, and pining wasn’t helping. Greg laid his phone face down on his desk and turned his attention to logging on, mentally placing bets on how many emails had flooded his inbox during his week of unplanned leave. One hundred and fifty was his opening gambit, but he’d reconsidered and raised to one hundred and seventy two by the time the desktop had loaded. 

With trepidation, Greg clicked to open the email program and was dismayed to find that his guesses were well off the mark. “Two hundred and fucking _twelve_?” he cursed, scanning for anything that looked like it might be even slightly interesting. His initial sweep wasn’t promising, finding mainly departmental circulars about pointless initiatives and HR nonsense about employee benefits that he was yet to come across someone taking advantage of, and he swore again. “Don’t these people have anything better to do?” 

Quite how it happened he couldn’t have said, but he was soon seventy-odd messages down the list and completely absorbed in weeding the crap out of the stuff that needed attention, the remainder of his coffee long since cold on the desk beside him. Eventually, the silence was broken by the ringing of his desk phone, the sound jarring after the industrious quiet. Greg glanced down at the display and cursed when he saw his boss’s name. He briefly considered letting it go to answerphone, but knew she’d make his week hell if he did.

“I said I wanted to see you when you’ve got a coffee, Lestrade, not when you’ve been distracted and let it go cold,” Throckmorton snapped by way of greeting. “Get your arse in here.”

“Yes, m’lady,” he grumbled once she’d put the phone down on him, vaguely wondering if he should be more bothered that two people had done that inside of twelve hours. Greg grunted as he stood, his side throbbing a painful, timely reminder that he needed to be moving regularly unless he wanted to seize up. 

Wondering how the hell he had managed to get to fifty five despite apparently being unable to follow basic advice from his doctor, he pocketed his phone and made his way back out into the main office. A couple of smirks were directed his way, but his team were being remarkably restrained, all things considered, and he mentally upgraded tomorrow’s doughnuts from Tesco’s own to Krispy Kreme. 

The boss’s office was on the far side of their floor’s landing, and Greg was willing to take it as a win that he got across the landing without being spotted by anyone from one of the other teams in his division, two of which also had offices on his landing. He stopped in front of Detective Superintendent Throckmorton’s door and had just raised his hand to knock when his phone vibrated against his thigh. Heart skipping a beat in a manner that would have been more at home in a lovesick teenager, he extracted it from his pocket and looked at the screen hopefully.

**Mycroft Holmes (personal): I trust that Chinese suits?**

Greg grinned at the message, feeling a weight lift from his shoulders. It didn’t mean that their friendship was repaired or that he knew what the hell he was going to do about the fact that Sherlock was right and he _had_ developed feelings for Mycroft, not by a longshot, but it was definitely a step in the right direction. Promising himself that Mycroft wasn't going to be getting away without making a _very_ impressive apology in recompense for his magnificent displays of first class twattery, he replied that Chinese was perfect, slipped his phone back into his pocket, and entered the dragon’s den.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally finished. Not quite sure how this chapter got so long, though. It seemed to have a mind of its own. 
> 
> Beta'd by my dear friend CindyLouWho.
> 
> Feedback is welcome.

The rest of the day had been horrible. He’d vacillated between trying to focus on work, which had grown progressively more difficult as the day had passed, and trying not to catastrophise about what was going to happen with Mycroft. That in turn had led to uncomfortable questions about quite _when_ he had grown so invested in their friendship, and when it had ceased to that simple, and he’d driven himself half mad by the time he left the building. If the work day had been bad, the journey home was verging on the torturous. Entirely because of poor planning, Greg had been an hour off being able to take the next dose of painkillers when he’d left, and a day of even mild work activity had left his head, flank, and wrist throbbing painfully. As proud as he’d been of himself for getting back to work within a week, he’d been questioning the wisdom of that decision more with each minute that had passed since lunchtime, and being stuck on a train next to a bloke who apparently didn’t know how to use antiperspirant for the last half an hour really wasn’t doing his rapidly souring mood any good at all. 

Finally, the train began to slow and Greg realised with a rush of relief that it was his stop. Impatiently, he pushed his way through the mass of his fellow commuters and practically leapt off the train as soon as the doors opened, forcing his way between the cluster of harassed looking people standing at the door waiting to board. The musty, stale air on the platform was a blessed relief after the all-pervading stench of BO and stress that had filled the train, and he relished it, breathing in deeply. The escalator ride up to the surface dragged on interminably, but the air grew incrementally closer to fresh as they crept up towards ground level, and he was eventually walking out of the station and onto the street. 

Crisp autumn air greeted him, and it was such a relief after the uncomfortably close confines of the train that the people dashing hither and yon, shouting obnoxiously into their mobile phones as they went, barely constituted an annoyance. Keen to get home, he made his way down the street, stepping deftly around a woman so focussed on her phone that she failed to spot him directly in her path, and it wasn’t long before the crowds of people associated with the station began to thin. After the divorce, money had been tight but the extra he’d spent to have a flat so close to a Tube station was more than proving its worth; inside of ten minutes, even with his slower than normal walking speed, he was turning onto his street, and home was almost within his sights. 

Being on the ground floor had many advantages; when he’d bought it, chief among them had been having his own garden space, but not having any stairs to contend with while still so achy was paying dividends now. Greg let himself in, the anticipation of dossing on the sofa until Mycroft arrived strong enough that it was almost a physical presence. That plan, however, came to a screeching halt when he heard what was undoubtedly muted talking coming from deeper into the flat. A quick look back at the door showed no signs that it had been tampered with, though he was sure that he’d have spotted them on the way in if there had been, which meant that his visitor was either a family member with a key or a Holmes with a lockpick. 

Greg hung his coat up and made his way down the hall and into the living room, from where he could clearly hear that his visitor was the elder Holmes brother, which was as much of a relief as it was unexpected. Not only had the other man tidied the living room, but he was also less likely to be butchering offal in the kitchen. He crossed the living room, noting that it hadn’t just been tidied, but dusted, too. Even the collection of random trinkets, gifts marking various occasions from his grandkids, clustered on the middle shelf of his book case had been arranged in height order. As apologies went, Greg thought Mycroft was off to a good start. 

“With all due respect, Prime Minister,” Mycroft was saying as Greg crossed the kitchen threshold, “you and your colleagues were told that this endeavour would be incredibly injurious to the nation, and urged to reconsider the inclusion of the referendum in your election manifesto several times. There is nothing further the civil service or I can do to help in these negotiations, as I told you last week. Twice.” Mycroft was propped against the kitchen counter, phone in one hand and the fingers of the other tapping impatiently on the worktop. That Mycroft trusted him had been made evident many years ago by how much freedom he’d been given to handle Sherlock, but being trusted with this level of insight into his work was something else entirely, and a warm feeling bloomed inside the older man. An eloquent roll of expressive blue eyes told Greg that the Prime Minister had said something painfully stupid, and he perched himself on one of the bar stools to spectate. “Of course the European Union is making an example of us; it isn’t in their interests to make this an easy separation, as you well know. This is ground we have covered numerous times and I have absolutely no desire to revisit it. Unless you have something new to contribute, we’ll be ending this conversation now.”

Mycroft ended the call with a condescending hum, and Greg felt the full weight of the other man’s attention settle on him. He stayed where he was, perched on his stool, and tried to hide his insecurity. “You’re early.” 

“‘Seven-ish’ isn’t actually a time, Greg. We’ve had this discussion before.” Mycroft glanced down at his pocket watch. “Ten past six; your pain relief is due.”

It took Greg a moment to process that, coming out of nowhere as it had. “How do you know...no, not asking,” he said, easing himself off the stool. He filled a glass with water as Mycroft pushed a packet of pills across the countertop. “You owe me an apology. A bloody _big_ apology.”

“Yes, I do,” Mycroft replied, and Greg knew him well enough to detect the discomfiture in his tone. “Medication first.”

Obediently, Greg swallowed his tablets, unable to help a grimace when one of the little fuckers caught on the back of his tongue. “God, they’re horrible,” he declared, having washed them down with the remainder of the water. “And no, I don’t need more smart arse comments about not putting myself in the position of needing them in the first place, thank you very much.”

Greg watched as Mycroft shifted, fingers twitching slightly on the worktop. “As you said, I owe you an apology.”

“A bloody big apology,” Greg corrected, folding his arms across his chest, broken wrist supported on his good arm. “That was bang out of order.”

“It was, and I apologise unreservedly.” Crossing one leg elegantly over the other, Mycroft regarded Greg evenly. “Your...companionship has come to mean a great deal to me. _You_ have come to mean a great deal to me. I hadn’t realised just how much until I heard that you were injured, and I responded poorly.”

Humming, because that basically confirmed his own - and Sherlock’s - conclusions, Greg held Mycroft’s gaze. He could tell him that he’d _needed_ him when he’d got home from the hospital, how much it had hurt when Mycroft had frozen him out, and just how bloody close Greg had come to throwing a glass of wine into has face, but he was dealing with Mycroft Holmes; he had doubtlessly deduced all of that and a whole lot more besides. “Apology accepted, you tosser. Just don’t take it out on me next time you have some sort of Holmesian emo meltdown.”

“A ‘Holmesian emo meltdown’?” Mycroft asked, distaste twisting his features and colouring his voice. “Where on earth do you get these phrases?”

Tension that he’d been carrying for over a week began to bleed out of Greg. He grinned at Mycroft, watching as a similar process took place; the stiff line of his shoulders relaxed infinitesimally and his lips twitched into a reluctant smile. “Are you saying I’m wrong? Because I’m pretty sure I’m not.”

“No comment.” Mycroft crossed the kitchen and opened the fridge, removing a bottle of white wine that probably cost a week’s wages. Greg watched as he moved, eyes lingering on the line of his back and the way the red in his hair glowed in the autumnal evening light spilling through the kitchen window. “I wouldn’t recommend drinking more than a couple of glasses,” he said, setting the bottle down and opening the cupboard containing Greg’s glassware.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Greg replied, pulling his gaze up from Mycroft’s shapely arse. “The good painkillers are even better after having a few.”

“Very well. On your head be it.” Mycroft poured two glasses of wine and turned to look at Greg, a small smile gracing his lips, just in time for the doorbell to ring. “That would be the promised Chinese.”

“As apologies go, you’re off to a good start,” Greg told him, pushing away from the counter. “Get the plates and stuff. We’re eating in the living room.”

When he opened the front door, it took a long moment for Greg to recognise the woman standing in front of him. A short Oriental woman, she worked front of house at the Lotus Lounge, their favourite Chinese restaurant. A restaurant which Greg knew for a _fact_ didn’t operate a takeaway or delivery service, but he’d long since realised that there was nothing Mycroft couldn’t get if he wanted it. “Enjoy your meal, Mr Lestrade,” she said, smiling vapidly, and held out two bags of food.

“Yeah, we will,” Greg replied, slipping the handles of the first bag down his arm so he could hold the second in his hand. “Thanks.”

He watched her turn and head back down the short path to the street, musing that being associated with Mycroft Holmes definitely had its benefits. He made his way back into the living room, and couldn’t suppress a smile when he found Mycroft, sans jacket, sitting primly on the shorter end of the corner sofa, mismatched plates and cutlery arranged on the coffee table, which he’d pulled closer for convenience. 

“Fuck, this smells good.” Carefully, Greg put the first bag on the table and worked the handles of the second bag off his arm, the movement releasing some truly divine aromas. “Since when do they deliver?” 

“Since I discovered their rather unorthodox accountancy practices,” Mycroft replied blandly. “Please, allow me.” He reached across and took the tub of spare ribs from Greg’s hand, quickly removing the lid and setting it on the table. 

Deciding that he quite liked Mycroft waiting on him, Greg sat back with his wine and let the other man get on with opening the tubs and bags until the table and floor immediately around it were littered with tubs and lids and bags. “I’m going to enjoy this,” Greg said, helping himself to spring rolls and satay chicken skewers and crispy seaweed. Glancing across the table at Mycroft, he had to restrain a laugh; there was always something about watching Mr Fastidious, resplendent in his fancy waistcoat and arm garters, pick food from plastic tubs that tickled Greg, and this occasion was no exception. 

“Shut up, Greg.” 

“I didn’t say anything!” Greg protested around a poorly stifled laugh.

“Not with your mouth, no.” Mycroft served himself a helping of chicken chow mein and reached for his wine. “Again, I apologise; I should have done this for you last Sunday.”

“‘s alright,” replied Greg, wiping his mouth on a napkin. He’d been planning to let things lie if he got a satisfactory apology, but having this again, the easy companionship and warmth that they’d shared for years, a sudden wave of anxiety hit. If he hadn’t pushed they wouldn’t be doing this now. He knew with certainty that Mycroft would have continued to freeze him out, and Greg had enough insight into himself to know that he’d have eventually have given it up as a bad job, as much as it would have hurt. Taking the metaphorical bull by the horns, Greg carefully placed his fork on the edge of his plate and reached for his wine. “But we need to talk.”

The change in the air was palpable. Mycroft’s fork hovered over his plate and he looked up from under his lashes, eyes intense. “How very ominous.”

“I told you that I didn’t want to lose this.” Greg mangled a spring roll beneath the tines of his fork and considered his next words carefully. “You said sex wouldn’t change anything, but obviously it _has_ and you were going to walk.” He held up a hand to stay Mycroft when the other man opened his mouth and continued before he lost his bottle. “No, I’m not having a go. You said sorry and I’ve accepted it, but I don’t want this happening again. If knocking the shagging on the head’s going to uncomplicate things, then I say we go back to how things were before. You’ll just have to put up with shagging phlebs again.”

“ _No_. Absolutely _not_.” A tense, uncomfortable silence reigned for a long moment, broken only when Mycroft, jaw tensing convulsively, put his fork down and fastidiously wiped his fingers on a napkin. “I’m afraid that that would rather be a case of closing the gate after the horse has bolted.” He placed the napkin carefully on the edge of his plate and leant back into the sofa, crossing one long leg over the other. “Sherlock believes that sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side, a viewpoint with which I agreed until recently.”

“That sounds very Sherlock.” Learning to understand the brothers Holmes had taken Greg over a decade, and it was moments like this, when he didn’t have a clue what was coming next, that demonstrated that he really didn’t understand them at all. He drained the remainder of his wine and turned the empty glass in his hands, doing his best to quash the hope - for what, he didn’t want to think about - rising inside him. 

Mycroft hummed, a small smile tugging at his lips and a glint of something mischievous in his eyes. “He’s wrong, of course. Genius though my little brother is, he always misses something. Sentiment is not a chemical defect: it’s a virus. An insidious, particularly virulent virus for which there is no vaccine or cure. A virus by which I’ve been infected.”

It took a long moment for Mycroft’s words to register, and then a longer one for them to make any sense at all. “Is that Mycroftian for ‘I’ve got feelings for you’?” Greg asked, heart racing. “Because, if it is, you _really_ need to work on your delivery.”

“Yes.” As simple as the response was, that one word was enough to send Greg’s head reeling. “I hadn’t anticipated just how powerful sexual intimacy could be when there is a pre-existing attachment.”

Greg huffed a laugh. “Yeah, that’d be why I didn’t jump head first into shagging you.” He shifted his weight so as not to stiffen up, the intense ache in his side telling him that it was too late for that. “Honestly, if either of us was going to fall afoul of feelings, I’d’ve expected it to be me.”

“Quite,” Mycroft replied, tone sharp. “It was a risk I’d considered it before propositioning you, of course. But you’re a sensible man, not prone to flights of fancy, and - aside from casual encounters - your relationship history has consisted predominantly of heterosexual activity. I didn’t consider that _I_ might be affected, and I confess that it took some time for me to...recognise the symptoms.”

The laugh bubbled up and out of him before Greg could stop it. He covered his mouth with his good hand, but the damage had been done. Mycroft merely raised an expectant eyebrow. “It’s not _actually_ a virus, Mycroft. It’s not going to give you a rash or make you sneeze.”

“No, these symptoms are far more injurious,” Mycroft replied gravely, only a glint of humour in his eyes belying his tone. “I have been left craving your company, rendered incapable of thinking clearly on more than one occasion, and it is becoming increasingly difficult to achieve orgasm without mentally replacing my own hand with yours.”

Feeling positively _giddy_ and desperately trying not to smile, Greg forced his features into a mask of friendly concern. “That sounds awful. What’re you going to do about it?”

Mycroft moved, leaning forward to reach across the table for the bottle of wine. “Initially, I decided to ignore it and let the virus run its course,” he said, topping their glasses up. “I did, of course, consider assassination or deportation, but Sherlock would never have forgiven me.” Glass held loosely between long fingers, he settled back into the sofa, eyes intent. “And then you had your accident, and...well, suffice it to say that ignoring it was no longer a viable option.”

“So, that’d be when you decided to freeze me out and give me the full bastard treatment,” Greg said, trying to keep his voice level. It was more of a challenge than anticipated.

“Yes. Intending that _you_ would sever our ties, obviously, but I confess that it wasn’t my best plan.”

“Nope. Bit crap, really, as plans go,” Greg confirmed, picking up his own glass. “So, what now? Seems to me like we’ve got three options; go our separate ways, go back to friends without benefits, or try for something else. In case you missed this lesson, ignoring it’s not going to work.”

“You know who I am, Greg. _What_ I am.” Nothing changed in Mycroft’s expression, but there was a definite shift in the air, the space between them growing heavy with something indefinable. “This is not a discussion into which you should enter lightly.”

“Yeah, I know. Believe me, I know.” Greg drained his glass, taking a moment to pull his thoughts together. Mycroft Holmes, the most dangerous man on whichever landmass he happened to be resident, was a textbook psychopath. Cold, manipulative, and charming in turn, he would achieve his end by any means necessary, with no compassion for those trampled underfoot in the process. That said, Greg knew that - for those few to whom he developed genuine attachments - Mycroft _was_ capable of feeling very real, deep emotions, even if he had absolutely no idea what to do with them. Greg felt the weight of responsibility settle on his shoulders; if they were going to get past this mess, he was going to have to take the lead. No, this isn’t a conversation he had even considered that they’d be having until yesterday, but now that they were here, he realised that he _wanted_ it. He wanted Mycroft, a him and Mycroft, and he was almost certain that the other man wanted the same. “Look, when you brought up sex, I didn’t want a relationship. Been there, done that, got the decree absolute to prove it”

“But?” Mycroft asked, impatience audible, when Greg stalled. 

“It’s been easy with you. We get on and the sex is bloody brilliant. That’s as solid a base as you’re gonna get if you want to try for something more.” Greg ran a hand through his hair, not sure how to put what he was feeling into words. “This last week, Mycroft. I — fuck, I _missed you_ , and then I couldn’t stop thinking about you even though I was fucking fuming. I don’t — it wouldn’t have got to me like it did if there wasn’t something more there, and Christ but I’m too old for this shit.” 

“‘This shit’ being the future of our relationship, I assume?” Mycroft asked drily, fiddling with the stem of his wine glass. “How reassuring.”

“What would you call it, then, smart arse?” Greg heard the strain in his voice and took a breath. Reading the need he hadn’t recognised himself, Mycroft reached for the bottle and decanted the remainder of the wine into Greg’s glass. The older man nodded his thanks and drank gratefully, letting the rich flavour wash away some of the strain. “Look at us, for fuck’s sake; a pair of middle aged blokes angsting about whether to get together or not like a pair of hormonal teenagers. I wasn’t _this_ much like a hormonal teenager when I bloody was one!”

Mycroft hummed, picked up his plate, and pushed a small chunk of chicken across the surface. “I suggest that we call it the start of a romantic relationship. An _exclusive_ relationship. Preferably without the shit.”

“You’re serious.” Greg wanted it more than he’d wanted anything for far too long to remember, and suddenly it looked like he was going to get it. 

“Very.” Mycroft speared the chunk of chicken he had been chasing across his plate but made no move to eat it. “Of course, I’ve never actually been in a genuine romantic relationship before, but if the ‘stars’ of the Jeremy Kyle Show can do it, I’m sure I’ll manage.”

A surprised laugh bubbled out of Greg, briefly distracting him from his vaguely panicked thoughts. “Jeremy Kyle, really?”

“It’s an invaluable source of information about the state of the nation,” Mycroft replied, a smile tugging at his lips. “What are you thinking?”

“‘What the fuck?’ is what I’m thinking. What the hell’s changed? You’ve gone from the cold shoulder to that clusterfuck on Wednesday and now you’re wanting a relationship.” Greg stiffly leant forward and snagged a spring roll, pushing for _something_ he couldn’t define before he took the last step. “Honestly, it’s enough to give me whiplash.”

To Greg’s surprise, a distinct flush stained Mycroft’s cheeks. “You weren’t the only one to receive a visit from my darling brother. I’ll spare you the gory details, but he, with all of his customary tact, suggested that I pull my head out of my arse and act before I lose the best thing to happen to me. He was right.” The discomfiture in Mycroft’s voice and bearing were a relief to Greg, because he was feeling more than a bit off balance himself. “Hence my suggestion that we enter into a romantic relationship. If you’re willing.”

“I...right. Yeah. Let’s just…” Greg stopped rambling when Mycroft’s left eyebrow arched. “Fuck it,” he said decisively. He knew that they were taking a massive risk, but there was no going back from the mess of the last week, anyway, and Greg had a feeling that this was now a case of make or break. “But you’re going to ask me out properly at some point, Mycroft Holmes. Call me old fashioned, but your pulling technique so far’s been absolutely shite.”

“Yes, well,” Mycroft replied, cheeks remaining stubbornly flushed, “romantic entanglements aren’t my forte.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Greg smiled. Mouth suddenly dry, Greg lifted his glass to his lips, only to find it empty. “Bollocks.”

“That would be what happens when one uses alcohol as a crutch during times of emotional distress,” said Mycroft, a growing heat in his gaze belying the blandness of his tone. “Perhaps we should find another outlet for your tension.”

A frisson of pure _want_ ran through Greg, the feeling almost overwhelming. “Yeah? What do you suggest?” he asked, running his tongue along his bottom lip. He’d meant it when he said that Mycroft was forgiven for being a first class arsehole, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to exact _some_ measure of revenge. “The leisure centre down the road’s been refurbished and the pool looks amazing. I’m thinking about swapping over when my gym membership expires next month.”

Mycroft put his plate down on the table, the sound of ceramic plate meeting wooden table not even coming close to breaking the growing tension. “I think that’s a wonderful idea, but perhaps there is something I could do in the more immediate term.” He leant forward and braced his arms atop his thighs and pinned Greg with a heated look. “Something I could help with now.”

“You know, now that you mention it, there _is_ something you can help me with,” Greg replied, voice rough even to his own ears. There had always been something magnetic about Mycroft, and fighting the pull took more willpower than he expected. Standing stiffly, he picked up their empty glasses. “The pots.”

Not giving Mycroft the chance to respond, Greg rounded the table with their glasses and headed to the kitchen, hips swaying more than was probably acceptable for a man of his age. He was willing to let his masculinity take the hit, however, because almost as soon as he had put the glasses in the sink, he felt the heat of Mycroft’s body behind him.

“You are a horrible tease,” Mycroft said, carefully wrapping his arms around Greg’s waist. Lips brushing his right ear in a barely there caress, he continued, “but we are _not_ sealing this deal in your kitchen.”

Goosebumps exploded down Greg’s left side, and his breathing hitched. “What about the pots?”

“Fuck the pots,” was Mycroft’s solution. He settled a hand on Greg’s abdomen, just above the waistline of his trousers. “Bed, I think.”

Humming, Greg turned in Mycroft’s arms. “I think,” he said, stretching enough that he could brush their lips together, “that that’s a good idea.”

“Good ideas are something of a talent of mine.” Mycroft moved infinitesimally closer and brought their lips together again. They’d shared many kisses over the course of the last six months, but none had matched this brief press of lips for sheer intensity. 

Greg raised his uninjured hand and threaded his fingers into the fine hair at the back of Mycroft’s head, holding him close as he parted his lips. Teasingly, he traced the seam of Mycroft’s lips with his tongue, unable restrain a pleased sound when they opened for him. The kiss spiralled quickly, shifting from tentative and tender to hot and desperate, their cocks growing hard where their bodies were pressed together. It had been far, _far_ too long, and he needed Mycroft more than he needed air. Greg placed his other hand on Mycroft’s arse and pulled him impossibly closer, but the resultant sharp pain, shooting up his arm from his broken wrist, was too much for him to ignore and a pained sound escaped before he could stop it. 

“I apologise,” Mycroft murmured, bringing the kiss to a premature end. “I always did get carried away with you.” He ran the hand from Greg’s arse up his back and stepped away. “Bed.”

“Yeah, let’s do that. You, naked in my bed.” Greg took Mycroft by the hand and tugged him back through the living room and out into the hall, but a sudden pang of embarrassment stalled him at the bedroom door. “I wasn’t expecting to get laid tonight; it’s a bit of a tip,” he apologised, thinking about the unmade bed and clothes-strewn floor. 

The air shifted behind him, Mycroft a warm presence at his back, not touching but definitely _there_. “I really couldn't care less.” He reached around Greg, his long, slender fingers wrapping around the door handle, and pushed the door open. “Bed,” he murmured, lips brushing Greg’s ear. “Now.”

There was a click, loud in the quiet room, when Mycroft turned the light on, and Greg surveyed the damage. Yesterday’s work clothes were piled in the corner, this morning’s still-damp towel on the floor behind the door, and the bed was a mess of tangled bed clothes, but Mycroft’s lips on his neck spoke eloquently about how little he cared. Greg was quickly lost to the sensation and he failed to notice the hand moving for his crotch until it cupped his cock through the fabric of his trousers. Breath catching in his throat, he rocked his hips into the touch, seeking friction. “Fuck, yes.” 

“Strip,” Mycroft ordered, voice low and commanding, applying just enough pressure to draw a moan from Greg. 

Hips rocking into Mycroft’s touch without permission from his brain, Greg huffed a low laugh. “Bit hard with you doing that.”

As he spoke, Mycroft’s lips brushed the outer shell of Greg’s ear. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that you’re a _bit_ hard, Greg.” His lips lingered for a long moment, drawing out the sensation, until he stepped back abruptly. “Strip.”

With alacrity, Greg set about shedding his work clothes. He flung his shirt and tie across the room to join the pile in the corner, and stepped out of his trousers and pants, kicking them away triumphantly. Naked, he turned to face Mycroft, anticipation and desire heavy in the air. The younger man was down was down to just his trousers and open shirt, the white fabric framing his slender body, and Greg felt a pulse of arousal. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” he said, drinking in the sight of the thick reddish chest hair covering liberally freckled skin.

“Hmm, so you’ve said,” Mycroft replied, voice low but laced with amusement. “The socks, too; you know how I feel about mixing sex and socks.”

“You’re a snob,” Greg huffed, but sat on the bottom of his bed, removing one sock, and then the other, eyes firmly on Mycroft. Socks having joined the pile of dirty laundry in the corner, Greg crooked a finger. “Come ‘ere.”

Mycroft closed the distance between them, eyes dark with intent. He stepped into the ‘v’ of Greg’s legs and rested his hands on Greg’s shoulders. “You are exquisite.”

A genuine compliment from Mycroft Holmes, a man who could undoubtedly have any partner he desired, always caused a pleasantly warm feeling to take root in his chest. Greg bit his bottom lip and ran his hands up Mycroft’s chest, enjoying the feeling of hair against his palms. En route to his shoulders, Greg paid attention to Mycroft’s nipples, toying with them until they pebbled between his fingers and the other man’s breathing grew heavier. The outline of his hard cock was _very_ visible through the fabric of his tailored trousers, and Greg’s mouth watered. 

Fingers clumsy with need, Greg went to work on the fiddly flies. “I’m taking you to M&S,” he declared when the small zipper tab evaded his grip for the second time. “We’ll get you some cheaper clothes, and then you won’t tell me off if I rip them open again.”

“I think not,” the younger man replied, voice loaded with distaste and amusement in equal measure. “Allow me.” Greg dropped his hands and watched as the other man pushed his trousers down, arousal shifting up a gear when Mycroft’s swollen cock was released from its confines, standing proud in its nest of coarse coppery hair. “The thought of not having this again. Not having _you_ again,” Mycroft started, the words laden with emotion, “I hadn’t realised —” he interrupted himself by bending to capture Greg’s lips in a brief but tender kiss. “Losing you would break my heart.”

Warmth exploded in Greg’s chest. “Just as well, really,” he replied, valiantly attempting to keep his voice steady. “Because you’re stuck with me now.”

“So I should hope.” Mycroft nodded at the head of the bed and stepped out of his trousers properly. “Make yourself comfortable.” 

Obediently, Greg moved up the bed, pushing the bedding out of the way as he went, until his back was against the wooden bed frame. He tried to keep the discomfort off his face, but his abdominal muscles pulled painfully as he moved, and knew that covered in fading bruises and holding his injured arm protectively to his tummy wasn’t his sexiest look. “Well,” he said, voice low and deep in an attempt to cover the sudden and very unwelcome feelings of uncertainty, “aren’t you joining me?”

Eyes warm and full of understanding, Mycroft smiled slowly and took his own cock in hand. “When I’ve finished enjoying the view, yes.” Greg watched avidly, feeling his own cock throb with need as Mycroft circled the head with his thumb. 

“You’re a fucking _tease_ ,” Greg declared, eyes firmly fixed on the sight of the Mycroft’s cock wrapped in long, elegant fingers, against a background of red hair and pale, freckled skin. 

“Coming from an expert, that is a compliment of the highest order.” The younger man’s voice was level but his dark eyes and flushed cheeks belied his composed facade. He released his cock and knelt on the bed. Greg looked up at him, eyes hungrily sweeping from his cock to his face. His nose was large and an odd shape, the skin around his jaw and down his neck was starting to sag, and his hairline was in well and truly in retreat, but Greg had never wanted someone more. “You’re absolutely hopeless,” Mycroft smiled, apparently plucking the thought from Greg’s mind before it was fully formed. 

“Yeah, but I’m hopeless for you, so deal with it.” Greg took the nearest hand and tugged. 

With a dramatic sigh, Mycroft laid on his side next to Greg, body tantalisingly close. “I suppose that it’s a cross I must bear.” His hand settled low on Greg’s abdomen, gently stroking the bruising over his hip. “I’m truly sorry, Greg; I should have been here on Sunday.”

“We wouldn’t be here now if you were.” Greg carefully moved down the bed until his head was on the pillow beside Mycroft’s. “Don’t do it again and we’ll be fine.”

“I rarely make promises, but that I _can_ promise.” Mycroft kissed him, slow and tender and markedly different from any of the kisses they had shared in bed to date. Greg was well aware that he had been holding back during their casual Wednesday hookups, not wanting it to seem that he was too invested or getting involved, and it was quickly becoming evident that he wasn’t the only one. The intensity with which Mycroft kissed him made his skin tingle, suddenly too tight to contain everything his body was feeling, and Greg shifted closer, needing more contact like he needed air. The hand from his hip moved slowly up his chest, eliciting a needy gasp when his right nipple was taken between clever fingertips. “You are _delightful_ ,” Mycroft told him, barely breaking the kiss to speak. 

Greg bit down on Mycroft’s lower lip and wrapped the fingers of his uninjured hand around his cock. He tightened his grip and swiped his thumb over the head, smiling when Mycroft thrust into his hand. “You’re not too bad yourself.” Mycroft smoothed his hand back down Greg’s chest and abdomen to come to rest almost painfully close to his cock. An intense, assessing gaze followed the hand, the lines around Mycroft’s eyes tightening when they passed the point at which his left hip had hit the ground. “No,” he said, applying the pad of his thumb to the wet head of Mycroft’s cock in an effort to distract him, “don’t start overthinking it. I’m not going to break.”

“Sex with a romantic partner is about mutual pleasure,” Mycroft replied, lips brushing Greg’s, “not enduring pain.”

“Have you been reading a relationship advice column?” Greg asked, smiling against the other man’s lips.

Mycroft huffed a laugh, his breath hot against Greg’s skin as he finally took his cock in hand. “Shut up, Greg,” he said, a clever flick of his wrist setting Greg’s pulse racing.

“Fucking show off.” Greg started to work Mycroft’s cock in earnest despite the awkward angle, using the stroke he knew drove the younger man to distraction. The tip was already wet with pre-come and he used it to ease his movements, a warm glow taking up residence in his chest when Mycroft’s eyelids fell to half-mast and a rare, quiet sound escaped. “Gorgeous,” Greg breathed, bringing their lips together again.

The kiss started heated and quickly escalated until it was more a messy, needy meeting of mouths than a definable kiss. Needing to be closer, needing more contact, needing _more_ , Greg shifted until he was partially on his side, but pain radiated down his flank where sore muscles and bruised skin were suddenly having to take his weight. He tried to ignore it, deciding that more body contact was worth the discomfort, but there was no hiding it from Mycroft. 

“Mutual pleasure,” he reminded him, ending the kiss. He released his hold on Greg’s cock and shifted away, cock sliding out of Greg’s grasp. “Roll onto your other side. Lubricant is in this drawer, yes?” Greg heard the bedside drawer open as he obeyed, and it was only then, when he was laid on his good side and it was too late to do anything, that he remembered what _else_ was in there. For a brief - _very_ brief - moment, he hoped that the other man wouldn’t see it, but the sound of the eight inch dildo slapping against the skin of Mycroft’s palm put paid to that. Greg turned his head and buried his face in the pillow, the cotton blissfully cool against his heated cheeks. “Oh, Greg, we’re going to have some fun with this. Tell me, do you think about me when you use this delightful implement on yourself?”

“Fuck off, you bastard,” Greg groaned, mortified. Of all the times they’d had sex, not one of them had been at his flat, and that it might be a good idea to stick his toy elsewhere hadn’t even crossed his mind. “You weren’t meant to see that.”

“Oh, but I’m glad I did.” He was expecting Mycroft to do _something_ , but it was still a surprise when he felt the dildo’s blunt head pressed against his crack. Instinctively, he bent his left leg at the knee and shifted forward slightly, giving Mycroft better access. The pressure of the head at his hole was teasingly brief, and a disappointed moan escaped when it disappeared. “Not today, however.” The dildo landed on the bed with a dull ‘thunk’, the sound quickly followed by the feeling of Mycroft’s body against his back as clever fingertips traced a path from the nape of his neck to the base of his spine, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. “So responsive,” Mycroft murmured, lips brushing the back of Greg’s neck. “And mine.”

“Yours,” Greg agreed, pressing back into the heat of the other man’s body. Mycroft’s cock was hard against his arse, and Greg rocked his hips, delighting in the quiet sound the movement elicited. His own cock was throbbing with need; he wrapped a hand around it, stroking firmly from head to root, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing like enough, not when he had Mycroft hard at his back. “But if you don’t do something soon, this is going to be a one man show.” 

“Hands off, Greg; that’s mine, too,” Mycroft whispered, lips brushing the shell of Greg’s ear, breath hot against the suddenly hypersensitive skin. 

Goosebumps erupted down Greg’s chest and arms and he was unable to restrain a needy whimper. Mycroft was commanding and domineering and Greg had always found that incredibly sexy, but tonight it was painfully so. Obediently, released his cock, mind forming a vague plan to explore that element of his lover’s personality properly in the not-too-distant future. “ _Do_ something then, you bastard,” he growled, pressing his arse against Mycroft’s erection for emphasis.

The sound of the lube bottle clicking open answered and Greg’s heart pounded in response. “I can assure you that my parents were very married when I was conceived.” The lid clicked closed and Mycroft’s hand, cold and slick, was suddenly right there at the juncture of Greg’s thighs. “When you’re fully recovered,” he started, hand slipping between Greg’s thighs, “you and I are going to spend some quality time with that delightful dildo of yours.” A teasing, barely there touch to his balls made Greg gasp and the temptation to take his cock in hand and finish the job was almost overwhelming. “Don’t even think about it,” Mycroft warned silkily, hand spreading the lube between Greg’s thighs. “But until then,” his hand withdrew, to be almost instantly replaced with his cock, “we have this.”

The feeling of Mycroft’s cock between his legs was viscerally satisfying. He pressed them together more firmly and Mycroft began to move, breathing heavily. Just as Greg reached the point at which he could take no more, his lover’s arm moved and he took Greg’s cock in hand. Still coated in lube, it moved easily, Mycroft’s grip and pace perfect. “Please,” Greg gasped, desperate. “Fuck, _please_.”

Mycroft hummed, picking up the pace with his hand, thumb catching the sensitive spot just below the head on every pass. Greg could feel the care with which the other man was moving behind him; to say that the constant movement was not painful would have been a lie, but Mycroft had them positioned in such a way as to avoid the worst of Greg’s injuries but still be able to make his blood sing. The attention that he was paying to Greg’s neck, alternating between lingering kisses and teasing bites, did exactly that; the older man _whined_ , a sound he knew that he’d be thoroughly ashamed of when he could think straight. “Always so responsive,” Mycroft breathed, hand moving faster and adding a twist to the upward stroke. 

Using what little of his brain remained functional, Greg timed Mycroft’s thrusts and clenched his thighs at just the right moment. The appreciative moan from his lover went straight to Greg’s cock, and he repeated it, squeezing rhythmically in time with Mycroft’s movements, revelling in every sound he elicited from the other man. The skin of his inner thighs was growing wet with pre-come, and Greg knew that Mycroft was as close to climax as he was himself. “Mycroft — I — you — _fuck_ —” he started as his orgasm hit, but the intensity of it rendered him incapable of finishing. He thrust into Mycroft’s pistoning fist as wave after wave of pleasure rolled through him, leaving him trembling in their wake. 

Moments later, Mycroft tensed against his back and hot wetness pulsed between his thighs as the other man came, a deep noise of satisfaction muffled by Greg’s shoulder. A pleasant warmth bloomed in Greg’s chest that it was _him_ that Mycroft had chosen to share this intimacy with. _Him_ who Mycroft wanted like this. He continued the regular clenching of his thighs, drawing Mycroft’s orgasm out, until the gentle rocking of his hips ceased. Long moments passed, the room comfortably silent apart from their heavy breathing, until Mycroft pulled his hips back; his cock slipped out from between Greg’s thighs, a trickle of cooling semen following in its wake. “Perfect,” he murmured, peppering the back of Greg’s shoulders with kisses. “Absolutely perfect.”

“Hmm,” Greg hummed lazily. The scent of desire and sex hung heavily in the air, and he breathed it in deeply as his heart began to slow. “There’s a packet of wipes in the top drawer.”

“I look forward to better acquainting myself with the contents of your top drawer,” Mycroft drawled, moving away so that he could reach the bedside cabinet. The air at Greg’s back was unbearably cold without Mycroft pressed against him; he rolled onto his back, following the warmth, and grimaced when his abdominal muscles pulled uncomfortably with the movement. The drawer closed and Mycroft turned back, wipes in hand. “I do wish that sex weren’t so messy,” he said, removing a wipe and using it to clean his semen from between Greg’s legs. Another wipe was used on Greg’s abdomen and his own hands, but distaste lingered in his expression. “Showers are in order, I fear.”

“Yeah. Wipes’re never enough to get come out of hair. Fucking stuff gets everywhere,” Greg replied, smiling softly. Once Mycroft had deposited the used wipes on the bedside cabinet, Greg took his hand and pulled him back down, settling carefully against his side. Head pillowed on the younger man’s chest, he could hear the beating of his heart, strong and steady and in time with his own. “Not yet, though.”

“No,” Mycroft smiled. He kissed Greg tenderly, fingertips playing with the hair at the nape of his neck, and the older man was sure that he’d never felt so content. “No, not yet.”


End file.
